Chapter 39
I wake up as the car pulls to a stop.
We’ve been driving for more than ten hours and I’ve been going in and out of sleep during the whole time: the last two days of heightened stress and multiple boosts of adrenaline, combined with jet lag, have left me drained and exhausted. Sam seems unaffected by it all, including this long ride.
“We’ll stay here for the night,” he says. “We need to switch the car as well. I have one stationed here.”
I nod slowly, still waking up.
Sam gets out of the car as I rub my eyes to clear them. The car door opens but I keep sitting. Then Sam peeks in and asks, through a mischievous grin, “Can you walk or shall I carry you?”
“Funny, funny,” I say, then get out of the car, stepping onto gravel.
The parking lot is small, with a few parked cars and empty spots. Surrounding it is a knee-high dense hedge. There is a small exit where a cobblestone path leads to the back side of a five-story hotel. The building looks old, ivy decorates the dark red mortar, and yellow lights shine from the windows.
We pass the empty tables and chained-up chairs outside the hotel restaurant, and I glance inside. Through the white transparent curtains, I see people having lunch, conversing at the tables.
Sam turns to me and offers his open hand. I look down, then back at his eyes, and lace my fingers with his. My heartbeat speeds up and blood rushes to my cheeks. I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blushing.
I am now wide awake, and at this moment, while he’s holding my hand like this, I am simply—happy.
He smiles and squeezes my fingers gently, then continues forward. We walk along the narrow path around the building, turn the corner and head for the hotel entrance. We enter through an old charming revolving doors. Inside, a lot of people pass by, either arriving at the restaurant or just finishing their meal.
Sam walks over to the reception desk, where a small thin man with dark hair and a pointy nose is leaning over a computer.
“I will be right with you,” he says politely, still looking down at the screen. His accent is hard, as if chiseled out of marble stone.
Sam waits.
A few moments later, the man looks up and gives us a broad smile.
“Good evening. What can I do for you?”
“Hello. We have a reservation under the name Smith.”
I glance at Sam. Smith?
“Of course. Do you have your passports or ID cards with you?”
From his pocket, Sam takes a different set of passports than the ones we came to Europe with.
I am really curious where he got them. Must be from Eduardo. Where else?
The man opens our passports then bends over his computer to enter our details.
Within a few moments, our room card is ready. The receptionist places the key card, a map of the town, and a tourist brochure on the desk. As he explains to Sam where to find our room, I tilt my head sideways to read the name on the map.
Solothurn.
“Where are we?” I ask Sam quietly.
“Switzerland.”
I smile to myself. I’d always wanted to visit Switzerland, though I somehow doubt we’ll see any cows with bells hanging from their necks at this time of the year.
The man points us toward the elevator and we leave the reception, heading for the small patio. An elevator door opens and several elderly people walk out, speaking the most bizarre language. It almost sounds like German, only it is not.
We enter the elevator and the door closes. Sam’s still holding my hand, and I am out-of-this-world happy—with just a slight pinch of anxiety. We are going to share one room. As Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
I find it hilarious! And a bit nerve-racking too. But most of all, I find it extremely exciting.
I lean toward him and touch his arm with mine. I look at him sideways, unable to wipe the smile off my face.
He glances at me, but then quickly looks away. With his eyes on the floor, he releases my fingers and moves away from me.
My smile fades instantly.
What did I do?
The elevator opens on the third floor, and he walks out. I just follow, feeling broken.
We walk to the door at the end of the corridor. Sam presses the key card to the sensor pad and the door unlocks.
He enters but stops me from coming in, raising his hand. “Wait here for a second.”
He walks in and I lose sight of him. After a few moments, the lights turn on and Sam appears in the small hallway.
“All good,” he says and picks up his bag from the floor. “You can come in.”
I walk into the room. It is small, with light brown and orange furniture, a small TV, a king-size bed, a large old-fashioned couch, a desk, and a chair.
On the right of the hallway, a bathroom door is open. I walk in, switch the light on, and close the door behind me. I lean against a sink and look at myself in the mirror.
My cheeks are still red from the spark of excitement a moment ago—and, actually, it doesn’t look as bad with my red hair as I thought it did. Or perhaps it’s this soft yellowish light that gives that impression.
“I’ll make us some tea, okay?” I hear Sam through the door.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, but so quietly that I doubt he heard me.
I turn on the cold water, and splash my face a few times. I look at myself in the mirror again, the water dripping from my face.
I don’t recognize myself like this.
I am in control. I am always in control. Why not now? Why does he have such enormous power over me? He smiles, I’m happy; he releases my hand, I fall down an abyss.
I shake my head, staring at the bottom of the sink.
I don’t understand. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight mode? Perhaps I wouldn’t be like this at all if we weren’t on the run? Only . . .
Only that’s not true.
I stand up and look at my reflection, my untidy red hair pulled into a ponytail.
It’s not true, because I noticed him the first day he moved in. I fell for him long before the escape.
I close my eyes and lean my head backward.
I’m a mess, a pile of emotional rubble. And I don’t know how to go back. I don’t know how to be my old self again.
I look at myself in the mirror again, then grab a small towel next to the sink and dry my face.
I sigh.
I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to face him.
I just want to disappear.
Then, I glance sideways at the shower.
Why not? A few more minutes on my own.
I retrieve my backpack from the corridor and then lock myself in the bathroom again. The sound of water is comforting, and I stall while taking off my clothes.
I walk into the cabin and close the door, trapping the steam inside, while the waterdrops slide over my body, washing away the sorrow, confusion, and lust. The calming flow relaxes my face, loosens my muscles and empties my thoughts.
After several minutes, I feel a lot better. I reach behind me to grab a small tube of a body wash.
Lavender and wild orchid.
I take a sniff.
Nice.
Then I pour a small amount on my open palm and spread the foam all over my body. The scent fills the small shower cabin completely and although it’s intense, it’s relaxing and calming at the same time.
A few more moments of solitude pass under the warm flow of water.
I sigh.
I can’t hide here forever.
Then I switch off the water and dry myself.
I put my jeans back on, the ID card dangling at my side as I button up my trousers. I unzip the backpack and pull out a new shirt we bought at the Barcelona airport. It’s a little bit big for me, but that’s fine. I’ll use it as pajamas, anyway.
I comb my hair and make a new ponytail, then turn and leave the bathroom, not looking back at the mirror.
There’s a steaming mug on the coffee table next to the couch. I assume it’s for me.
As I sit down, I’m reminded of my Aunt Sue’s old armchair. And then I remember seeing Sam sitting in it, chest bare, wearing only his jeans, both arms resting on the sides, a wicked grin on his face.
I swallow the thought and close my eyes.
Think of something else! Think of something else!
I hear Sam approaching from the small kitchen area and I open my eyes.
“Jane, are you okay?”
I nod. Then I decide that wasn’t convincing enough, so I say, trying hard to seem aloof, “I’m fine, Sam. I’m okay.”
He tilts his head, looking at me intently. He’s not buying it.
I look away, breaking our eye contact.
He sits next to me, putting his own tea mug on the table next to mine. “Jane, I know this is stressful. I . . . I can only imagine how you must feel, taken away from your normal life, not sure what’s gonna happen next . . .”
Then he places his warm palm on mine resting on my lap. And there it is again, this little incidental touch, forcing my heart into higher gear, making my head spin.
“But you don’t need to worry. I promise. I’ll protect you as long as you’re in my care.”
And after that? You’ll leave me?
I’m silent. I don’t trust myself to talk.
“Jane, please.” He slides off the couch, kneels next to my feet, and looks up at me from below. “This isn’t like you. Please, say something.”
What am I supposed to tell him?
That I don’t care I can’t go back to my home? That I don’t care that we are fleeing for our lives? That I don’t care that people are trying to capture me?
I don’t care about any of that.
I want him. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me. I want him to make love to me.
I close my eyes.
I’m afraid he’ll be able to read my thoughts if I keep my eyes open.
Then I feel his palm on my cheek, and I look into his eyes, the ocean under the night skies. Involuntarily, I look at his lips, my desire steaming more than ever before, speeding my heartbeat, hindering my breathing.
“What is it, Jane?” he whispers.
I take a breath. “I . . .”
“What?”
“I want you.”